Translation

It was not the snow and frost from the north,
nor the cold withering from the east,
it wasn’t the rain or the storms from the west,
but the sickness from the south that has faded
the bloom, foliage, stock and root
of the language of my race and my people.

Chorus
Come, come on, come with me westwards
until we hear the language of the Fein,
Come, come on, come with me westwards
until we hear the language of the Gaels.

Once if a kilted man was seen in the valley it was certain
that Gaelic was his language, but they have torn his roots from
the ground, in the place of Gaelic is the foreigner’s language,
and the Gaeltachd, cradle of heroes, today it is a land of
majors and colonels.

Pass over to us the golden candlesticks
and put in them the white waxen candles
light them up in rhe mourning room
of the wake-house of the Gael’s old language
That’s what the enemy has long been saying
but the language of the Gael is alive yet.

Although it has escaped with its life fom the valley,
although it’s rare today that it’s head any more
from Strathnaver [MacKay’s country] in the far north
right down to Drumouchter where the cattle are
nevertheless, for it in the Western Isles
the swords and shields are taken in hand there.